Sidewinders (5 page)

“Getting back to Barney Dunn,” Bo said, “what happened after he struck that match and saw what had happened? How come this so-called Butcher of Bear Creek didn't come after him?”

“According to Dunn, he did. He swung that big ol' knife at him. Dunn claims he jumped higher and farther than he ever did in his life and barely avoided gettin' his head chopped off. He made it to the back door of the saloon and tumbled through it just in time to kick it closed behind him and drop the bar across it. Then he started hollerin' his head off for help. The place had cleared out by then, but a few people were still movin' around town and they came a-runnin'. When they heard Dunn's story, they got shotguns and lanterns and went out to search that alley, and they found Rose's body back there, but no sign of the killer.”

“That's mighty convenient,” Scratch said. “Anybody stop to think that maybe Dunn killed her his own self and made up that business about the other fella?”

John Creel's bushy white eyebrows rose in surprise.

“That's mighty smart of you, Scratch,” he said. “You thought of that right away. It took Marshal Haltom three or four days to have that same idea. But Dunn's a little fella, and Rose was a pretty strappin' gal. I'm not sure he could've strangled her. Not only that, Dunn was workin' at the Southern Belle with plenty of witnesses when the gal was killed down at Cottonwood, so he couldn't have done that. Doc Perkins said that from the looks of it, he was sure the same varmint was responsible for both killin's.”

“That's probably true,” Bo said. “But either way, I didn't have anything to do with them.”

“No, but you can see how come folks were spooked when you rode into town, bold as brass. The question is, what are you gonna do now?”

“I came to visit you and the rest of the family,” Bo said. “The real question is, what do you want me to do?”

“I can answer that,” Riley said from the doorway. “Get out. That's what we want you to do.”

John Creel bolted up out of his chair and said, “Damn it, Riley, we talked about this. You told me you'd back off—”

“That was before he talked to me.”

The new voice came from a man who'd stepped up onto the porch behind Riley. As this man followed Riley into the house, Bo recognized his brother Cooper, who had their mother's blond hair and wore a handlebar mustache with the tips waxed. Cooper had inherited his brawny build from John Creel, just like Bo had, instead of Riley's lankiness, which came from their mother.

“I'm sorry to have to say it, Bo,” Cooper went on, “but with that trouble hanging over your head, there's no place for you here. We have enough problems of our own these days without shielding a murderer.”

“You, too?” Bo said. “You really believe your own brother is capable of doing such terrible things?”

“You may be our brother by blood, but you haven't spent more than a month here, total, in the past forty years. How the hell are we supposed to know what you're capable of?” Cooper glanced over at Idabelle, who was glaring at him, and added, “Pardon my language, ma'am.”

Scratch said, “You know what Bo was like when you were all kids.”

“People change,” Cooper said, unknowingly repeating what his father had said a few minutes earlier. “And that picture Barney Dunn drew was the spitting image of you, Bo. Tell me how he was able to do that if he didn't see you like he said he did.”

Bo couldn't answer that. The same mystifying question had occurred to him. As far as he knew, he had never met Barney Dunn. There was no way the bartender could have drawn a picture of him without seeing him.

But he hadn't been there in that alley behind the Southern Belle, and he sure hadn't killed any saloon girls. None of it made sense.

“I don't have any explanation,” Bo said. “You'll just have to take my word for it.”

“And he's your brother,” Scratch added, “so you damned well ought to.”

“Stay out of this, Scratch,” Riley said. “It's none of your business.”

“It sure is. Bo's my friend, and I'm his, what do you call it, alibi. He's been with me the whole time, a long way from Bear Creek, so I know he didn't kill those gals.”

“Then why don't the two of you go back to the settlement and explain all that to Marshal Haltom?” Cooper suggested. “Maybe he'd believe you.”

Scratch shook his head and said, “Nobody in Bear Creek seemed to be interested in believin' anythin' except the worst.”

“You can't blame them,” Riley said. “All the evidence says Bo's guilty.”

“We're just goin' 'round and 'round in circles here,” John growled. “Bo's stayin' right here for now. I'll go into town tomorrow and have a talk with the marshal. Like I said before, we'll get to the bottom of this.”

Riley and Cooper didn't look happy about that decision, but evidently they knew better than to continue arguing with their father. Being told he was wrong always made John Creel dig in his heels and get even more stubborn. A mule could be downright open-minded in comparison to his pa, thought Bo.

His brothers turned and left the house without saying anything else.

“This hasn't been much of a homecomin' for you, has it?” John asked.

“Maybe not,” Bo said, “but I'm glad to be here anyway. I'm glad I found out what people have been saying about me. I don't like the idea that folks believe I'm a murderer. I'd rather clear my name once and for all so I can ride free wherever I want to without that hanging over my head.”

Scratch added, “Yeah, the way things are goin', there'll be wanted posters out on Bo before much longer, and then bounty hunters might come after him. If we hadn't ridden down here, we wouldn't have had a clue why he was bein' chased.”

“That's a good point,” John agreed. “We got to get things straightened out before anybody prints up some of those ‘Wanted Dead or Alive' posters.”

Idabelle got to her feet.

“I'm going to get started on supper,” she said. “Are you staying, Scratch?”

“Yes'm,” he replied. “Figured I'd ride across Bear Creek and see my brother and sister tomorrow.”

“Do you still have as big an appetite as you used to?”

Scratch grinned and said, “Gettin' older ain't done anything to change that yet.”

“Then I'll be sure to fix plenty of food,” Idabelle told him with a smile.

When she had gone out to the kitchen, John went over to a big rolltop desk in the corner and opened it. He took out a corked jug and said, “We'll just sweeten this coffee a mite.”

Bo and Scratch held out their cups and let John add a dollop of whiskey to each of them, including his own. After he had replaced the jug in the desk, he took a sip of the spiked coffee, licked his lips in appreciation, and said, “There's nothin' wrong with Idabelle's coffee, but there ain't many things in life that a little corn liquor won't improve.”

“You know she probably knows you've got that jug hidden in the desk,” Bo said.

“Oh sure, but she don't say anything about it and neither do I. As long as I don't flaunt it in front of her, she lets it slide. If she ever let on that she knew about it, then her bein' a good Christian woman, she'd have to do something about it.” John sat down in his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, looked at Bo and Scratch over his coffee cup, and went on, “All right, you two. Tell me all about your adventures since the last time you came home to Bear Creek.”

 

 

If not for the worry lingering in the back of his mind, Bo would have thoroughly enjoyed the rest of that day. He and Scratch spent a couple of hours spinning yarns for John Creel. There were plenty of them to choose from, because trouble had never been shy about roping in the two drifters from Texas.

At one point, John commented, “If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been makin' up stories like old Avery Hollins. You've been in so many fights you ought to be dead a hundred times over.”

“We've been lucky,” Bo acknowledged.

“Luck's got nothin' to do with it,” Scratch insisted. “It just stands to reason that a couple of Texans are tougher than any of the varmints they might run into somewheres else.”

“Damn straight,” John agreed with an emphatic nod.

Idabelle brought in food from the kitchen and called them over to the big dining table on one side of the room.

“Do the boys and their families eat with you?” Bo asked.

John shook his head.

“They've got their own houses and take their meals there.”

“Except on holidays and other special occasions,” Idabelle said. “Then the house is full of children and laughter.”

“I'd like to see that,” Bo said. “Maybe we'll make a point of drifting this direction some Christmas.”

“Don't wait too long,” John said. “I ain't gettin' any younger, you know.”

Scratch said, “Shoot, Mr. Creel, you'll outlive us all. Everybody knows that.”

John grunted as if to say that he wasn't so sure of that.

It was hard to imagine a world without his pa in it, mused Bo. But that day was coming. John Creel was already older than most men ever lived to be, and while he seemed hale and hearty, that could change with little warning.

Bo told himself not to think about that. Instead he just enjoyed the meal and the evening that followed. When it came time to turn in, in one of the guest rooms upstairs, he slept well, although his dreams were haunted at times by gruesome images of dead women and blood dripping from a butcher knife.

He woke early the next morning, as was his habit, but not as early as Idabelle Fisher, who had breakfast ready for the men when they came downstairs. Ham and eggs, biscuits and gravy, mountains of flapjacks, plenty of steaming hot coffee . . .

Bo had never minded the rough meals that he and Scratch prepared on the trail, but this home cooking was a world of difference. It was almost enough to make a man think about settling down and staying put.

Almost.

After Scratch had heaped effusive but well-deserved praise on the meal, he said, “I reckon I'll saddle up and head on across the creek this mornin'.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Bo warned. “Folks around here know that you were with me yesterday. They might hold a grudge against you because of the things they think I did.”

“I'll take my chances,” Scratch said. “Anyway, if I run into anybody, I'll just tell 'em that they're all wrong about you.”

“I'm not sure that would do any good.”

“It's a start,” Scratch insisted. “We got to make people see the truth.”

“It would help if we knew what that truth was,” Bo said.

Scratch frowned and asked, “Are you thinkin' about tryin' to find out who really killed them gals?”

“I'm no Pinkerton detective,” Bo said, “but it seems to me that the best way to make folks believe I'm innocent would be to figure out who's really guilty.”

“Yeah, that makes sense, I reckon. We'll talk about it when I get back.”

Bo nodded and lifted a hand in farewell as Scratch headed out to the barn to saddle his horse. A short time later the silver-haired Texan rode away with a clatter of hoofbeats.

John Creel got ready to leave a short time later for Bear Creek, heading out on his errand to talk to Marshal Jonas Haltom. Bo didn't know the marshal, who had taken the job since the last time Bo and Scratch had been there, but his father assured him that Halton was an honest lawman.

“He'll listen to reason,” John said. “At least I hope he will.”

“He hasn't done anything about the stock you're losing to the Fontaines, has he?” Bo asked.

John shrugged and said, “There ain't much he can do. He's the town marshal, got no jurisdiction outside the town limits. It's up to the sheriff to stop the rustlin', and to tell the truth, he don't seem to care all that much about it. Makes me wonder if Ned Fontaine didn't slip him a little somethin'.”

“That's a pretty serious accusation.”

“Maybe so, but I wouldn't put it past Fontaine.” John sighed. “And we don't have any proof that Fontaine's to blame for what's been goin' on. If we did, hell, I'd send for the Rangers. They'd come in and clean things up, by gum.”

“Maybe that's what you ought to do,” Bo suggested.

John's eyes narrowed as he said, “I'm used to stompin' my own snakes without hollerin' for any help.” He swung up into the saddle. “We'll talk about it later. For now, you stick close to home, Bo. Don't go wanderin' around the countryside where somebody could jump you.”

“I plan to stay right here,” Bo promised.

With both Scratch and his father gone, he was sort of at loose ends, so a while later he gave in to his restlessness and walked out to the barn. The hands had already left on their daily chores, so he didn't think anybody was around. But when he stepped into the barn he saw a man sitting on a stool, mending a saddle.

“Hello, Hank,” Bo said, warmth going through him at the sight of his youngest brother.

Hank was stocky and awkward. He had never been much good as a cowboy, but he was good with numbers and kept up with the ranch's books. He was a decent craftsman, too, and could be counted on to keep the saddles and other tack in good repair. With his brown hair, close-cropped beard, and sad eyes, he had always reminded Bo a little of an overgrown puppy.

Hank smiled now and set the saddle aside. He stood up and hugged Bo.

“Riley and Cooper told me you were here,” he said.

“Did they mention how they weren't happy about that situation?”

“Those two are always worked up about something. This time it just happens to be you, Bo.”

“You're bound to have heard what people are saying, Hank.”

“I've heard it. That doesn't mean I have to believe it. Right from the start, I've said that the whole idea is crazy.”

“You weren't much more than a boy the last time you saw me,” Bo pointed out. “We don't really know each other that well.”

“Well enough,” Hank said. “We're blood kin, Bo. I believe in you.”

Bo put a hand on his brother's shoulder and said, “I appreciate that, Hank, I really—”

The sudden thud of hoofbeats made him stop. The pounding grew louder as Bo turned. A group of riders swept into the yard between the main house and the barn and reined in with dust swirling around the hooves of their horses. Bo and Hank stepped out of the barn.

A big, barrel-chested man with a prominent nose was in the lead. He sat his saddle and glared down at the two men on the ground.

“Bo Creel?” he demanded.

Bo moved forward, ignoring the warning murmur that came from Hank. He said, “I'm Bo Creel.”

He had already spotted the tin star pinned to the big stranger's vest, so he wasn't surprised when the man said, “I'm Marshal Jonas Haltom from Bear Creek. You're under arrest for murder.” Haltom put his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “And I don't reckon there's anybody here who'd be too damn upset about it if you wanted to put up a fight.”